


Main Chalk

by orphan_account



Category: The Favourite (2018)
Genre: Conspiracy, Escaping the Royal Court, Light Bondage, Multi, Sadism, conversations during sex, royal court drama, yeah sex is fun but have you ever tried royal treason?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 07:16:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18310799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Suddenly all she could smell was dust; her husband's words rang through her ears, and she sat atop his lap in wonder. It's not as if her life meant anything anymore, but she had sense enough to ask whether he’d gone mad: "Why? What makes you think that could ever possibly work? Why?"After Sarah is exiled, Abigail becomes a practical slave of the Queen. With the help of her dearest husband, she breaks away from the daze of power and becomes desperate for escape, for love, and for her long-lost morals.In Scotland, Sarah is without husband, without love, and has no reason to live other than to see Anne in ruin.





	Main Chalk

**Author's Note:**

> welcome! this will be a multi-chapter fic of an undetermined length. thank you for reading, and leave any thoughts you might have in a comment, loves! :)

Abigail would like to smack Masham across the face. It never fails to make him blush, and whatever humiliation she can get out of him, she will. He plays hard and fast but he's quite fragile. She appreciates the control it gives her. She's likely to tie him down, night after night, make his cock stand up straight, beet red. She likes to pinch him and watch him squirm. She likes to fuck him. But she  _ loves _ to hurt him. It is her most brilliant pleasure.

 

His knees, against cold stone. His wrists, tightly bound with rope that pulls at fragile flesh. He whines.

 

"Hold still."

 

She's positioned herself over him, her cunt on his mouth. He's working the best he can and she sees him getting tired, but she makes him work until she's come. Then she lets him go, easing herself down from the high with her own fingers.

 

"On the bed."

 

He stands up shakily. His cock bounces with the steps he takes to get over to the mattress, and he kneels on it.

 

"No, bend over."

 

He whines a little. He knows what's coming. He stands up and repositions himself, and she holds his shoulder to help him lean over. His ass is up, and pretty pink handprints are waiting to be made. She kneads his cheeks for a moment first, spreading him open and appraising what she's penetrated with fingers so many times before.

 

She slaps him hard and unprompted. He rocks forwards, and groans. She does it again, and he pushes his knees apart a bit more, ass pushing back up into the air. She slaps harder, and his moans come out breathier and longer. She slaps him about five times before he starts panting, and she knows if she doesn't ease up he's going to come. She stops.

 

“Lay down proper.”

 

He falls onto his side, fists still bonded in front of him. His cock is leaking. She sheds the last of her nightwear and lays down beside him, picking up his top leg and throwing it over her hip so that she can reach to the back of him. She pushes two spit-slicked fingers into him at once and relishes the wince he gives, the little hiss escaping his teeth as his cock twitches. She fucks him so very slowly, as to prod every pattern on the inside of him until she comes upon his sweet spot. He jumps, and pants.

 

She watches his face with an intense voyeurism likeable to sadism. He comes quickly like that, rocking down onto her two fingers. She lets him come but doesn’t let him touch himself, holding his bound hands up near their shoulders so that the only friction her gets is against the sheet below him and the tip of it on her stomach.

 

He rests. She untwines the rope from his wrists and rubs them with a wet cloth. She kisses his palms. They sleep.

 

They do this on the nights when she's not with the Queen. And sometimes on the nights when she's been with the Queen and needs someone to push around.

 

Of course, things change after Sarah is exiled. The Queen cuts right through the facade of fine living in luxury with the snap of her fingers. Abigail begins to feel a rotting hatred in her stomach, for the Queen, and for her life. She no longer feels safe in the palace. She has no control. There is no more ladder to climb and every sniping, condescending trade she has with Harley is meaningless, bottomless, and useless. Her heart aches. 

 

Her desire for control comes out onto Masham. Her dear Sam, who may be a little idiotic but always has an appetite that she’s reading and eager to fill entirely. After she and the Queen cut off intimacy, this becomes her favourite pastime. There is no other use for her than to torment him and fulfil herself. For a long time, she thought of it only as an endless spiral of demented attributes that was bound to spin out of control. 

 

It’s her guilty pleasure. She doesn’t truly care what he gets out of it. She hadn’t expected him to get anything out of it. The first time she had pulled his hair, it had been a test. After he writhed beneath her, she had taken it upon herself to poke and pull until the extent of his dirty fantasy was exposed for her to play with as she saw fit. It didn’t matter what he got out of it.

 

It didn't matter, until she watched him, faced pressed into the pillow with tears, begging for release. Begging for what only she could give him. Begging for what she later realised he could find nowhere else, she as she only found it in him. And she gave it to him.

 

Many nights after he passes out she watches him sleep.

 

Once upon a time he had been worried for the possibility of a child. She had, then, told him rather heartlessly that the last thing a whorehouse wanted was another child, and she had been left barren a long time ago. She regretted being so harsh, lying here with him in her arms. It wasn’t easy to watch him feel the pain she should have had, and hoped that he was released of it by now.

 

She hadn’t realised that they loved each other until he came to her with the idea of escape. 

 

She rode up and down against him, his arms tied to the headboard behind his head. She was vigorous in her bouncing, fucking down onto him as hard as she could possibly stand it. He was breathing heavy, hair in face, bite marks on his chest. His face was flushed, eyes closed. He whispered it, so she almost lost the murmur in the noise when he said: “Let’s run away together.”

 

It took her a moment to even realise that he had spoken and slowed her hips slowly afterwards then. “What did you say?”

 

He spoke it loudly this time, with confidence, so she could be sure it was not some nothingness that had been admitted in senseless passion. “We should run away.”

 

Suddenly all she could smell was dust; her husband's words rang through her ears, and she sat atop his lap in wonder. It's not as if her life meant anything anymore, but she had sense enough to ask whether he’d gone mad: "Why? What makes you think that could ever possibly work? Why?"

 

He shrugged. “Think on it. Keep going.”

 

Think on it she surely did. For the next three days it was such a ridiculous concept that she almost forgot it happened. On the third night she sat Masham on the floor in front of her spread legs and slapped him silly. “How could we even get away with it?”

 

He blinked himself together. “We could come up with some disguises, some money. Some weapons, if need be. We would run off to Scotland and buy some small cliffside cottage. We’d live out our lives there.”

 

“Wouldn’t we need horses?”

 

“Not royal horses. That doubles the chances of them coming after us, and triples the chance of us being caught. If we could steal some peasant horse just to get past the northern border, we could be free.”

 

The thought of stealing a horse from someone who already had nothing stirred an unpleasantness within her. She subdued it.  _ Free. _ What a concept.

 

“I’ll think on it. Here.”

 

She pulled her pantyhose down under her skirt and urged him forward by the back of the neck. His tongue met her clit and the world was lost to her for a little while longer.

  
  
  


 

Scotland might be a much more pleasant place were Sarah’s husband not dead. At the very least, she could gaze out on the green hills with someone next to her. Someone to speak to. She had never felt so alone in any place in all the world since she was held in a brothel with a large, threatening brute smashing bottles whenever she spoke.

 

Her home is not pleasant and her life is not well. She works passing liquor back and forth from sunrise until sunset and she is treated with as little respect as a cockroach. During the first months, she had hit nearly ten men with pitchers of ale, and had the remaining bruises to prove it. After the last fight broke her nose, she bought a pistol of her own and ceased making fights.

 

She lived in a town the size of a piss stain, in a ten-stride by ten-stride tenement that she shared with innumerable diseases, rats, and another bar woman twice her age. Every night she sat down and wrote another letter to Anne, and none of them were ever sent but every time they became more violent, more putrid, and more shameful with every passing day. Soon, she was merely writing down different ways that she would like to see Anne dead.

 

She supposed, to herself, that it may be easier to get into the country again than it was to get out of it. She was a peasant now. Her face was covered in dirt and scars, and dozens of bruises dark enough to cover the hook made in her face by a horse dragging her in the night. She knew the underground passages of Hampton Court Palace better than anyone she knew alive. 

 

She went out the next day and used an entire month’s pay to buy a new pair of shoes.

 

And her mind was made.


End file.
